


Spots

by Salios



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gay, M/M, Slash, Thilbo, Thilbo Bagginshield - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salios/pseuds/Salios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Dwarves find that while Hobbits do not have beards, they do have Spots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spots

**Author's Note:**

> Spots
> 
> By: Salios
> 
> Fandom: The Hobbit
> 
> Pairing: Thilbo, Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins
> 
> Rating: M – to be safe.
> 
> Chapters: 1/?
> 
> Date written: 02.06.13  
> Date published: 02.06.13  
> Time to write: less than 45 min.  
> Written for my amusement during my children’s literature class; we have the Hobbit as a course text (No, I'm not joking, this class really is this awesome.). I am preparing myself for the days of crying ahead. Obviously nothing is mine but the inspiration and addition to the characters.

 

Each race of Middle-Earth had their own unique characteristics that set them apart from the rest: the Rivendell Elves were all dark haired and kind, the Mirkwood Elves fair haired and standoffish, the Humans short-lived and adaptable, and the Dwarves were short, hairy, and stubborn. The greater races all had a creation tale that told of their beginnings at the hands of deities. Oppositely, Hobbits had no such creation tale. Their progenitors were of the Fae, not to be confused with the slang term for Elves. The Fae were creatures of light and magic, born before their maker gave them true meaning or direction. They had the minds of children and had no needs but for enjoyment. But as with all children, they grew jealous of their siblings’ children. They watched the birth of the Elves, Humans, and Dwarves with growing anger, wanting to have their own creatures. And so, in a fit of play and pride, they raised from the earth the Hobbits.

They were simple folk, as were their parents; short and child-like in demeanor. They had no need for shoes, for their feet were made of the earth. The only clue to the Hobbit’s creators was in the spots that decorated their flesh. Each Hobbit was born dotted in black, a smattering of little marks that grew in great intricate works that filled the canvas of their bodies. As they aged the patterns filled out and the black lightened to reds and browns and sometimes warm yellows and pinks. The brighter, paler colours were rarer than the rest. The most uncommon of shades was an almost crystalline white. The spots would shift and change in tone to match the mood of the Hobbit, growing light or dark. White spots hadn’t been seen in Hobbiton for nearly three centuries, the spawning of spot colours completely unpredictable. And so, when one Bilbo Baggins was born with grey spots, Hobbiton was flush with excitement.

Bilbo was raised unsheltered from his neighbours, and eventually their curiosity was sated and he barely had to deal with the curious poking and prodding through his teens. His spots paled to what everyone had expected: a pale colour that shifted and shimmered between white and silver. Though to bare one’s spots as an adult was more a courting tradition, Hobbits were not ones to hide. It wasn’t until his fiftieth year did Bilbo feel the need to cover his spots. When Dwalin had first entered his home, Bilbo had rushed to his room and crawled into a shirt he’d gained from his mother years previous. The light linen was long and covered the back of his hands, a hole in each proved to be openings for his thumbs. The collar rode high around his neck, stiff and close. He’d tucked the shirt into his trousers and donned his suspenders just in time to admit another Dwarf, though this one with much improved manners.

For whatever reason his Took blood had been in control the morning after, sending him tearing through half the shire to catch up with the party of twelve Dwarves and one smirking Wizard, blast him. Bilbo had kept wearing the undershirt, even using a piece of cloth to tie around his neck as a kerchief for when he had to open the collar. He’d made a point of only bathing after the rest of the company and doing so alone. A sharp look in the Wizard’s direction had him spouting some half-truth about Hobbits and their customs. It had been enough to keep the Dwarves away, even weeks into their journey.

It wasn’t until after they’d climbed down from the Carrock that Bilbo had a run of bad luck. He’d waited for the rest of the company to toddle off and back from the nearby stream before he’d considered moving. Somehow the dirt beneath his bottom had become rather comfortable. Gandalf was dozing underneath a tree, and Thorin, the only other member to not have yet bathed, was resting against a boulder. Judging by the tilt of his head and the earlier stiffness to his gait, Bilbo doubted the Royal would be moving anytime soon.

He made his intentions clear and headed off into the wood, following the obvious trail of large footprints to the pool of clear water. Bofur had kindly told him that the water was lacking in current and warm from the sun, a great relief to the Hobbit. He shucked off his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt before gently prying himself out of the now stiff undershirt he hadn’t had a chance to properly clean. He slid his suspenders off and the shirt after it, folding the pieces gently on the bank. After a moment of hesitation he shucked off his trousers too, they were in dire need of cleaning as well. Hobbits weren’t fans of water, at least water outside of a bathtub or sink. Bilbo made sure to slowly edge into the pool, testing each foothold first before carefully adding the rest of his weight. Before long he was in hip deep, shivering slightly at the contrast of hot air and cool liquid.

His spots had grown over the years, forming intricately woven stripes that ran the length of his body. They began in a knot on his lower back, a design he had more than once attempted to have sketched out, to no avail. The tendrils reached down in stripes across his buttocks and highs to curl around his calves and fade into the hair along his shins and feet. The smooth dashing of dots ran up his back like a caress, accenting the curve of his hips, smaller waist, and to the broad set of his shoulders. They reached over and around, curling into swirling designs around the caps of his shoulders. They ran up his throat to the base of his skull and the rise of his Adam’s apple. He’d been lucky in that regard, only a few spots had shown on his face and were easily passed off as sun spots from his walks in the Shire. His marks spun and curved down his front, across his breast and down his stomach, linear and slightly curved with the flow of his shape. They mimicked their siblings on his back and flowed down his stomach and hips, across his thighs, and faded into the hair of his shins. His spots weren't glaringly obvious against Bilbo’s pale skin, though he had made sure to swipe dirt across the few that had escaped his coverings. While the tales had told of the colours and beauty of such pale spots, they hadn't warned him that the markings would **glow**. In the dark they emitted their own soft, pure light, enough for him to see by. That had come in handy during his time below the mountains.

Already enjoying the feeling of water smoothing away the grime of his travels, Bilbo sunk under and scrubbed at his hair. He grabbed handfuls of the fine sand and rubbed it along his body, allowing the grit to peel away the dirt, sweat, and grime of past days. When he surfaced his dark, curly blonde hair was stuck to his face and he ducked under again. He flipped the strands back from his face this time as he surfaced, and stroked the wet curls down and away. What he wouldn't have given for a hot bath to ease the pull of his muscles, but the cool water would have to do him for now. He reached up with both hands, one grabbing the other, and stretched. His arms drew back and his back arched, and the Hobbit couldn't help the moan of relief he let loose as he felt several somethings pop and shift from the movement.

A choked sound from the bank behind Bilbo had him frozen. He waited a breath before slowly lowering his arms and cautiously looking back over his shoulder, turning slightly. Though some of his wet curls fell across his forehead and marred his vision, Bilbo could easily make out the broad form of one Thorin Oakenshield; one stunned, slack-jawed, and half-dressed Thorin Oakenshield.

Bilbo could really do nothing more than stay frozen and watch the king, waiting.


End file.
